Missing Puzzle Pieces
by Mind Holds The Key
Summary: 'Keller had done just as Neal had hoped he wouldn't do, had achieved something the con man hoped he would never achieve. He had won.' Set at/after 3x10. A lot of angst. Suffering Neal. Enraged Peter. Anymore and I'd spoil the general plot.
1. On all fours

**BEST READ IN STORY WIDTH 1/2, OPTION/BUTTON FOUND AT TOP RIGHT, BECAUSE THE STORY WAS WRITTEN IN SAID WIDTH**

A/N- Take place after season 3 episode 10. Please read in requested story width, because i'v realized that in it's original FF setting it messes up the way I structure my writing.  
>The original purpose of this story was going to be entirely different. But I settled to this instead. A lot of angst. Heart wrenching really. A lot of Neal suffering.<br>I re-read to check for typos, but my games been off as if late. If you see any, I apologize.

Disclaimer- You know how it goes.

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><p>Neal missed their conversations.<p>

Not that he and Peter didn't talk anymore. Because they did, there was plenty of talking, just not the way Neal found comfort in, not the casual chit chat about nothing in particular, or sometimes past scams, where one would brag about something he forged or stole and the other would retort with his own bragging about how he figured that specific case out and how he knew is was Neal's doing, et cetera.

But now, it was completely different.

Now it was like walking on a thin bridge, and the con man knew they weren't going to walk this one together, as Peter would formally enforce, to ensure of Neal's safety, and that of everyone they cared for.

This time, Neal was not only crossing the bridge alone, but was also blindfolded, with a gun to his back- his every move calculated, every breath nearly hitched as the agent demanded and spat, cursed and yelled.

They had taken Elizabeth. And that was the last straw.

Neal wondered if perhaps he should have ever dared the agent to figure this game out in the beginning, to prove that he was right- full well knowing that Peter was in fact correct all along.

Only this time, Neal was there, in the same room, work space, almost consistently, under a watchful eye thanks to the tracking anklet that Peter checked every day, and the game was playing against him, in circles, brown eyes glaring, watching, noting every change of the muscle in Neal's calculated expressions.

But during those moments, Neal would casually smile, would use his wit, his charm, to change the games patterns, the path, to throw Peter off, to keep him at bay- and though sans simple, it was still something that one would compare as light, in contrast to the situation as of now.

Now this was serious. Neal had only realized that he saw the past cat and mouse chase as some simple maze, but now this was a hostage situation, now the tables had turned, now Keller had used his mind, and out of the few people Neal greatly cared for, the criminal mastermind chose the wife of the agent who vaguely trusted Caffrey.

Keller had chosen the right bait to not only get the treasure and frighten Neal for the well being of a loved one, but the man had also kidnapped the person that was married to the agent who was trying to catch Neal again, and one can only laugh if they were to ask if Peter was mad, angry, because those were beyond the right choice of words.

Peter was furious, blind with rage, and if he wasn't the kind of man with his feet steadily placed on the ground, he'd probably murder Neal where he stood, without so much as blinking. He'd pull out his hand gun and shoot the man square in the forehead like Jimmy Burger was done in by the mob.

Keller had done just as Neal had hoped he wouldn't do, had achieved something the con man hoped he would never achieve. He had won the game.

Neal realized just that as he stood in the Burke's kitchen, watching as Peter slowly made his way towards the oven, brown eyes to the ground looking at the mess that flooded the floor- his face fallen with fear, until he trailed the red up towards the fallen pot of sauce, a small sigh of relief leaving him as he realized it wasn't the blood of his wife.

The con man stood by the window of the kitchen, watching his, -what he knew was now former-, friend sway and search with his eyes, there but not, something that one could clearly tell in the way he blinked, breathed, walked, the agents mind was swimming, those around him not there, just blurs, as good as figments of his imagination, as well as the voices that drifted into his skull, as Diana called him, as Jones talked to him. His eyes closed, and he stood there, stiff, still.

All seemed to collect itself. Everything in the room sharpened, the blurs in his mind became figures, the softened tunnel in his vision gone, the echoed slew of voices gathering and becoming clear as he focused, as his brown eyes lifted towards the only person that stood at the corner of his eyes, that long slender stand unmistakable, that dark suit, somewhat messy from the run, unforgettable, those crystal blue eyes and lightly tussled black curled hair; Peter looked to Neal Caffrey.  
>The con man took a single hand out from his pocket to hold towards Peter, and the agent couldn't tell if it was to defend himself, explain himself, or hold Peter as he slowly turned his body towards Neal, perhaps frightened about getting hit, or the agent falling. "Peter," Neal started, gently, as if calling him back from whatever place in his mind he was temporarily lost in, brows knotted, head tilted, as if forsaken for words, reasons, explanations.<p>

That's all he said, all he uttered as he watched Peter with concern, letting the words that collected drift as the mans eyes weren't glaring at him, but were rather dim, the light gone, as the world around him became too real, as the situation began to hit him hard.

But the agent didn't step towards him, he only looked to Neal, eyes soft, lost. "He took," He paused, gathering himself, the anger collecting, nearly breaking from its calm and edging towards yelling, screaming out the words. He breathed in lightly, and continued. "My wife…" He muttered, voice breaking eyes still towards Neal.

And Neal was smart, he didn't say anything, didn't reply, didn't state the obvious, realizing that his voice alone could ripple the calm surface that lightly trembled. Instead he flexed his jaw, teeth gritted behind closed lips, eyes still to the agent, brows still knotted, head still tilted lightly, the hand that he held out retracted and now falling to his side. He hoped his body language alone could state that he was sorry, that they had to work together to find her, that he knew- but not that he expected it to happen.

But, -Neal wanted to curse out loud, break the window behind him, let Peter punch him until he lost himself to the darkness behind his lids-, he knew. He knew it might come to this. He knew Keller was mischievous, the game he played at.

And he was just as dangerous as Adler, if not, was becoming more.

It was Adler who had killed Kate and who had shot Mozzie, but Keller was just as bad, jumping in as soon as Adler opted out- as if the former man had never left to begin with, almost silently slipping in for the other man.

Neal was surprised that Keller didn't hurt Sarah when she was confronted, and was more over confused if not at ease when Peter would come to work every morning with that usual air of kindness yet strategic calloused sharpness- confused because Peter seemed alright with the world despite Keller running around killing and taking, at ease because he knew that it was because Peter and Elizabeth weren't in immediate danger, because the news that morning wasn't -_ 'Peter isn't coming into work today, because he sustained a serious injury in result of the impact to his skull and is currently in treatment'_, - or -_ 'Peter didn't call in, we can't contact or find him, we think he or Elizabeth's been taken'._

And yet he had been so blind to not see it coming, because he expected it, because he knew that Peter was concentrating on taking care of himself, and his friends, while keeping an eye on the con man to prevent him endangering his young life in attempts to run with the treasure, or put Keller down with a gun in his trembling hands meant to forge, paint, seduce, not kill.

And a fool, to not tell Peter to keep an eye on El, to make sure she was protected at all times.

Now with this simple move, Keller had taken down the pawns, the bishop, the knights, and held the queen hostage. Adler had been the man who had killed a young woman in flames, who sent someone else to shoot Mozzie in the heart- and Keller was just as bad, if not worse, his true colors finally beginning to show- so why would he find the need to ultimately spare Elizabeth? How could one assume that after the treasure was found from Mozzie's fleeing hands, that the agents wife would be given back alive? If not remotely well?

Everything spiraled out of control and fast, in less then an hour that night.

Peter looked away and back towards the pot that lay on its side, the sauce that slid down the surface, and lay in a puddle around the ground where Elizabeth once stood, eerily resembling blood. "He took my wife." He whispered, fists clenching.

Caffrey didn't think it through, taking a cautious step forward in attempts to comfort the man. He didn't watch as Jones' brows raise in that incredulous manner, looking form the con man to the agent who was at the edge of berserk. Didn't catch Diana's grip on the taser gun tucked in the belt on her right in case the situation got bad, all the while glaring at Neal as if the man held a weapon himself.

He didn't think it through.

Because in less then registering moments, Neal found himself on the ground, on all fours, face towards the tile, nose nearly touching it, eyes wide, breathing heavy.  
>The con man hitched his breath as he lifted his head to look forward, the movement dizzying, making him sick to his stomach, eyes towards Peter's shoes, and he wondered, why he was on the ground, and how he got there.<br>The moment came to him as the pain shot through him, the left side of his head aching with an implacable hot sensation, almost as if burned. He hissed lightly as he spared a hand that was holding him up to touch the side of his, his trembling fingers coming back towards his line of vision, his eyes going wide with the sight of blood.

Neal's world turned, those around him blurring, the only sound was the pounding in his skull, his heart at a rather calm tempo, and his labored breathing. He didn't notice or hear as Peter's feet shuffled against the ground in attempts to near him but was being pulled back, or hear as the agent yelled and cursed at him. Only his name was echoed as it was being shouted, and called by those who immediately came to his side.

His blue eyes searched the ground in attempts to find something, but he didn't know what.

The red that stained the ground was the sauce, he knew that. He didn't wonder why he was close to the oven, if the sauce was near him, he only realized that he was hit by the fist of non other then Peter Burke in a fit or reasonable rage, and was on the ground as a result.

It wasn't until Diana kneeled in front of him, lifting his face by cupping his chin, that he realized there were people around him. She looked towards his eyes, brows furrowed, her mouth moved, there was no sound, just white noise, and he could hardly read her lips, she stopped and glanced towards the side of his head, then towards the ground, Neal following her line of vision before she turned her head to look somewhere else, yelling again, but short words.

The con man looked towards the ground, the pain overwhelming him, taking his senses, his ability to register anything, but there he spotted the pan that was once on the stove, on the floor by his right hand, the hollow inside facing towards him. He looked towards the ground again, and he realized he wasn't near the stove, and the stain that covered the ovens face, collecting near it's base on the ground, was no where near him.

This red wasn't from the sauce, he realized, not feeling the light shaking as his shoulder was gripped by a male hand in attempts to rouse him towards awareness. This red was his red.

And there was a lot.

A lot of his blood.

Diana grabbed him by the chin again, and he looked passed her shoulder as she glared towards him, he looking for Peter, who should have been standing there but wasn't.

Everything began to spin, his blinking elongated, world fading to black- he didn't realize he was closing his eyes in attempts to sleep until a female hand slapped him across the face. His eyes drifting, swam, he looked from Diana to Jones who held him up. The world faded with another blink.

He opened his eyes again.

He didn't remember when he decided to lay on his right side, his arms sprawled out before him, extending towards nothing, as Diana held her hand on the left side of his head, but he felt something soft in place of her fingers, Jones shouting at him and over his shoulder towards others, holding his radio to his mouth as he looked back to Neal.

The echoes came, his vision tunneling, his eyes staring at nothing, he could vaguely hear them shouting, demanding that he stay awake and hold on, because help was on the way.

He didn't care, couldn't, because now all he wanted more then anything was rest.

Neal wanted to sleep.

If aware he would realize why that was a bad thing, he would care enough to keep himself awake in the case of a head injury. But he couldn't. He needed to rest.

He allowed his eyelids to slowly shut, the blue of his eyes beginning to fade as his pupils began to grow. He heard distant sound of another slap in attempts to keep him awake, felt the light swimming from the urgent shake of a shoulder, that lulled him further to sleep as it felt like the slow rock of a boat on the steady ocean waves.

He didn't realize when or why he could only see black. He wondered for a moment, but then, felt his breath leave him, and let the world around him drift away as he succumbed to the nothingness in his fading conscious.

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><p>Please review. I've had a lot on my life as of late, and I need the support to continue writing stories as much as possible. I'd really appreciate it, anon or not, rude or kind, etc. Well, maybe not rude :\.. :)<p> 


	2. Disorientation

**PLEASE READ IN 1/2 WIDTH FORMAT, OPTION ON TOP RIGHT, BECAUSE THIS STORY WAS WRITTEN IN SAID WIDTH, AND READING IT IN THIS SITES GIVEN WIDTH WILL MESS WITH STRUCTURE SETTING**

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><p>AN- I was really surprised when I logged back in to find so many reviews. Wasn't expecting that. Thank you guys so much! And thanks for reviewing, because it meant that despite my mistakes, you guys enjoyed the read.  
>Here's a bit of a gift, chapters 2 and 3.<p>

Also, I thought it was pretty clear what happened, but I'm glad it wasn't, because then this whole build up would have been blabber.  
>It took awhile for me to update since, well, I wanted to write chapter 3 up on the same day because- this is too cerebral for my taste in this story. It's short though… I think.<br>There's a time/setting shift around paragraph 3, so be wary, I hope to not confuse the readers. Also, some education on skull fractures here and there. Not too sure if i'm 100% correct.

Happy New Years!

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><p>A basilar skull fracture, they said.<p>

The force from the blow was pretty strong. They had assumed from the angle that the concave mark was shaped in, that he had flinched away last second on instinct. They told him that if his instincts didn't give him the reaction time he needed in order to survive the blow, that he could have died on the spot, if not minutes later.

After the doctor walked away from explaining what had happened, after what they told him he had been there awhile, Neal sat in silence, in the bed, in scrubs- something he'd have to thank Mozz for later when he saw the little guy, but would have to lecture him on not making him seem like an insane streaker on morphine when in a gown because he wasn't. However, it gave him the dignity, spared him from waking up naked on a bed in a near sterile room with female and male nurses tending to his every need.

The machines hooked up to him had the gratuitous courtesy to notify a nurse nearby that he was waking up, allowing her to pull out the inserted urethra tube catheter before he was fully conscious, sparing him the awkwardness of such an act, and as she joked- the uncomfortable pressure of it being pulled out.

It wasn't until she mentioned the catheter that he asked her how long he had been there to need such a thing, and what had happened. She nodded, but didn't give a direct answer, instead she explained that it was normal for people who take a blow to the head to forget what had happened that led them to waking in the ICU. He took it she was flirting with him as she spared all formalities, and with his charming smile, he had asked her if she could fetch his doctor.

She only nodded with a bright and kind smile, turned and rushed out as if she was going to burst, as a teenage girl upon meeting her celebrity crush would.

He let out a small laugh, as if expecting to see Peter standing in the corner with his arms crossed and brows raised in that stare that only questioned Neal's large ego and ability to not only fetch women, but love himself so much in a sense of realizing he had good looks in order to use them in such a way, because as Peter last put it, only the really vain would think so highly of themselves.

At first that bothered Neal, but now he only laughed, as Peter had changed him, and he only used his charm to get what he wanted, which Peter didn't usually shake his head at anymore since it got the job done in most if not all cases that involved women and easily manipulated men that would fall for that confident pearly white grin.

But when Neal turned his head, with an intake of breath as if he was going to say something, he held it, and realized that the agent wasn't there ready to lecture him for being an idiot and getting hurt in such a way.

His brows knotted then relaxed as he realized that Peter didn't have to be there in his sleep state, or for his every waking moment, his head turning when the ICU door slid open, a tall slim older man taking a casual step in, wrinkles etched in his face, large rimmed glasses over green eyes, gray hair lightly tussled but combed back, notable gray scruff around his jaw line and mouth indicating a long days work from a full nighter shift.

He held his clipboard with a single hand, the board pressed against his side, in a rather aloof manner. Neal mentally groaned- great, he thought to himself, this man was either careless, sociopathic, or bad at his job, probably mad with the long hours of work.

But even so, the doctor smiled lightly, only glancing towards the foot of the bed, then back towards the patient.  
>Neal smiled lightly in response and looked away to where the doctor had been looking, noting the light that bled through the white blankets with faded blinks, the light of his anklet.<p>

The doctor however didn't wince, or shift uncomfortably as he approached Neal, who in the doctors eyes was another felon.

On instinct, the con man realized he wasn't hand cuffed or bound to the bed by any means. So they either thought that he was allowed in the outside world because he wasn't dangerous in any means of violence, or someone from the bureau was here explaining the situation and why the tracker was on him to begin with.

But still, when Neal was forced into his check-ups by June or Peter, even after having the anklet explained, former doctors would uncomfortably shift, and almost wince with Neal's every move.

If anything the elder man was as calm and as lively as one who had heard a slew of good news. "Hello, Mr. Caffrey. How're you feeling?" He asked, resting the clipboard on the bed, papers face down as he adjusted a wire that lay sloppily on the top of the large pillow below Neal's head.

The con man only looked and followed the move then looked back to the doctor. "I've had better days." He muttered with a smile, reaching up to touch the throb in his head, but the doctor stopped him with warning words.

"You might not want to touch the wound for awhile Mr. Caffrey." He set the wire in a more acceptable manner and drew back his hands, grabbing onto the clipboard and reading it over as he turned towards the sink and cabinets, pulling some drawers out in search of something, back to Neal. "It'll hurt for a long while, it'll take long to heal as well. Touching it will do no good," He paused as he pulled out a pen and lightly hit the drawer with his hip to close it.  
>He turned, eyes to the paper, before he looked up with a smile. "Because it'll only hurt more if you do."<p>

He took a seat on a high stool by the cabinet and sink, a hand holding the clipboard, pen in other hand scrolling through the sheet, stopping periodically to mark something or write something here and there. His foot was propped on the chairs bars at the bottom, the other planted on the ground. He took in a breath and rested the board against his stomach lightly. "So I'm guessing you called me to know what's up? Normally when patients wake from long periods of a near comatose sleep state, the place is a bustle, lively," He furrowed a brow with a small smile. "**_Annoying_**. But not you, Caffrey, you look as well and lively as we had hoped you would." He eased lightly, looking back to the chart. "But that doesn't mean we get to treat you as if nothing happened, unfortunately."

Neal looked around, then to the doctor. "Yeah, well, um," He held out a hand, in search for a name, letting it fall, the gesture nearly exhausting him.

"Oh," The man looked to his name tag and adjusted it lightly, showing it. "Dr. Defarge, at your service. You can call me Ernest if you'd like, only I'm told it's odd to do such a thing, since they say it fits me to well." He looked to the ceiling as if looking for something. "I don't see it… I guess it's kinda like calling a grumpy old man grumpy, or old man, as a name." He shrugged looking to the papers again, wafting the hand that held the pen dismissively in the air. "Anyhow, your case, yes." He nodded, a pregnant paused following as he read over the papers, his eyes lifting, looking over the clipboard, brows risen. "You're certainly fortunate, Mr. Caffrey."

Neal's brows knotted. He was utterly confused. All he managed to gather was that he was asleep for awhile, that he wasn't allowed to touch his_ 'injury'_, and that this doctor thought he was a young man stuck in the body of a sixty year old- and that he loved to talk. Wait, "You said I was in a near comatose state?"

Dr. Defarge nodded. "But let's take this slow, the strain might cause unwanted situations. Seeing as to how you have no recollection of what happened, telling you this, rather bluntly, might cause some neurological issues on your behalf."

Neal's eyes narrowed in response, but he didn't say anything, waiting for the man to continue. He realized that if he asked, he'd most likely become anxious or stressed.

"You see, Mr. Caffrey, usually, when it comes to these cases, we don't tell patients what happened. But if the blow to the head is an unrelated head injury to the overall cause of them being here, like, lets say getting shot in the leg then getting hit in the head from a fall- that sort of thing, we do tell them. But in your case, your reason of being here is entirely related to the head trauma you sustained fr-." He stopped, seemingly catching himself, before looking to the clipboard and back. "Now, Mr. Caffrey, do you know what day it is?" He asked,

Neal immediately caught on to what he was doing. He shook his head lightly, looking around. "Thursday?" He answered honestly. He remembered because that was the day he walked out of the conference room after adding to Kramer's explanation as to why Degas' _The Entry of The Masked Dancers_ that Peter had found was a fake with his head hung, an expression of hurt when he apologized to Peter because he knew that the agent wanted this, wanted the painting to be real in order to capture Caffrey again. And although Neal knew he was playing Peter, lying to him with that false expression of misplaced blame, it still hurt him, because the way Peter double glanced towards him only clarified that Peter had lost himself in the chase and forgot that he ever considered the con man a friend rather then a tool.

The memory alone made his head hurt and he winced lightly.

"Mr. Caffrey?" Dr. Defarge said rather loudly, and Neal could only assume it was because he was repeating himself. "You remember anything Mr. Caffrey?"

Neal shook his head lightly. "No, no just what happened this afternoon at the office." He looked around, searching for a clock- what time was it anyway?

Dr. Defarge only nodded and continued to write, rested his pen, and looked to Neal, another question in tow. "What do you last remember?"

Neal shook his head. "I remember heading back to June's," He paused, looking to the doctor who seemed rather confused. "I stay at her place, no relations, she's just a wealthy widow and good friend who's allowed me to live in the studio apartment in her home, my landlord," He added, and as expected the doctor jotted that down. "Um," He tried to remember where he last left off. He looked to the doctor in attempts to recollect his memory and surely enough, Neal remembered because of the large black thick rimmed glasses on the mans face. "I went home and there I spotted a friend who frequently visits." He paused, fast forwarding the conversation he had with Mozzie with narrowed eyes. "We talked," He skipped the details. "And he left."

There was a long silence that hung in the air, save for the machines and the scratching of the pen. The doctor looked up, expecting more but none came. "That's it?"

Neal nodded slowly, face towards Dr. Defarge, his eyes suddenly darting to their corners, looking down towards the white sheet, searching, his head finally turned along with them, and he stared at the blankets. "I got a call from someone. I don't remember who…" He said slowly, stopping, trying to recollect anything, but then he gave up and shook his head. "And that's all she wrote." He poetically added, as if to add some humor to his tense surroundings.

He felt his heart somewhat race, his head hurt, his stomach turn- as if he had done something wrong- he knew something he didn't want to remember or couldn't, and it wasn't good, he could feel it in his gut, and he really didn't know if he wanted to follow it.

Dr. Defarge nodded. "So you have a recollection of past events that happened before the incident-"

"Yeah.- Did Peter not tell you anything?" Neal interrupted, but wasn't looking towards the man, but towards the sheets.  
>The question was in a rather odd tone, as if it would get him somewhere in his mind, flare some forgotten segments of the memory, hoping the doctor response would provide him with answers other then the one he asked for by judging the tone in the mans response alone. "I mean, Agent Burke, the FBI agent?"<p>

The doctors brows furrowed lightly. "I don't know anyone by the surname Burke, but a Ms.-uh," He paused, then perked his head up remembering. "Diana was here from the FBI with another agent. Possibly Burke?"

"Tall, 6'2" Caucasian male? Brown hair and eyes?" Neal added in hopes, looking to the man. It was unsettling for some reason. Not knowing, remembering the events in the afternoon when Peter seemed to drop any trust in Neal.

The doctor shook his head. "African American male, shaved head." He corrected.

Neal's stomach turned. He meant Jones. Then Peter wasn't there. But why? He didn't go on a case alone unless he had to, meaning, Neal on another gray zone escapade that wasn't approved or told to Peter, but of course the Agent would figure it out in the end.  
>They weren't staking anyone out. He didn't take a walk from the surveillance van and into dangers way. So how did he get hit? His head hurt again.<br>Now he was agitated, frustrated, he was beginning to despise the room, the fact that he was in a hospital.

"Mr. Caffrey," The doctor hesitated. "You seem... Stable, well, enough, so I'll explain the incident, since we're planning on discharging you after 12 additional hours of constant check ups." He stood up. "I probably won't see you till then, but I feel it's better to tell you now rather then have you wait and wonder for the next few hours."

The con man nodded, face collected, as he watched Dr. Defarge settle his clipboard onto the stool he was sitting on, turning, hands placed in his white lab coat pockets.

"You sustained a rather lethal head injury that could have gone all kinds of wrong. An impact the the sphenoid bone, close to the temporal bone, a soft area of the skull. A Basilar skull fracture all the same." He pulled out a hand, making a line with his index finger in the air. "Judging by the cuts angle you made a last second move, tuning your head away, rather on instinct, bracing yourself or trying to get away as the object was swung in your direction." He placed his hand back into his pocket. "This not only means you saved yourself from hemorrhaging, in which as a result of trauma, the blood irritates the brain tissue and causes swelling, also known as a cerebral edema, which would have collected into a mass, in which it would have resulted in a hematoma, which would in result cause pressure on the nearby brain tissue, reducing vital blood flow, which would have killed off brain cells…"

The doctor paused, looking to Neal, expecting the man to be lost, it written in his expression, but the con man was keeping up, so the doctor continued. "If you hadn't turned away in time, the impact would have been bad, the trauma irreparable, you would have died within minutes. You would have severely bled into your brain, in between the skull and cover of the brain, well," He paused, rethinking. "Certainly would have gone through to the meninges layers that cover the brain, if not farther. But thankfully the fracture wasn't that bad. From what Ms. Diana told me, you seemed lethargic, numb, you were mumbling which meant that you had difficulty in speaking, off balance, you had tremors, common symptoms of a concussion and in worse cases, hemorrhaging , especially when you lost consciousness. We asked what had happened, rather, how hard you were hit," He paused, remembering how Diane grimaced. "She said pretty hard, full on impact. The fracture and amount of blood on you had us thinking you were a goner, Mr. Caffrey." So casual, Neal wondered if this was a set-up or if this guy was one of those Big Labowski guys back in his younger years.

"So my cowardice from being hit saved my life." The con man smiled with a small nod.

The doctor smiled in response, looking rather goofy. "Indeed it has. And there's no wrong in it. You see, when the object hit your head, a part of your skull caved in. Your skull is smooth, somewhat, like the surface of an egg shell. But when hit, the surface cracks inwards. In your case, the bone cracked, but in a rather straight line, due to the fact that you were hit by the thin edge of an object directly. In result the bone concaved and sliced through the membrane, almost going past the meninges layers which protect the brain, which it thankfully didn't.  
>They said they had checked on you on site, the paramedic said you showed signs of nystagmus, in which the eye involuntarily moves horizontally in this continuous twitch like movement. However, it seemed only temporary in your case. But as a result of the trauma, you were unresponsive. It was rather severe, especially due to the blood loss, and signs of poor nutrition."<p>

The last bit that the doctor added made Neal involuntarily twitch, and his stomach ache. Due to the resent incidents, he'd forgotten about food much. He had an appetite that would hardly go silent, but when he had to run in circles to get Peter off the trail, food was forgotten, remembered when the deed was done, then forgotten again when he had to go do something else in order to set things right, thanks to Mozzie's selfish acts, ignoring Neal's warnings.

"You've been out for a total of four nearly five days Mr. Caffrey. It's January 17th, a Tuesday." The doctor added, words drawn out, cautiously.

Neal's brow furrowed. It was that bad? He had been out for nearly five days? Five days in a light comatose state, five days of his hopefully long but not too long life span spent in a hospital room? He shook his head lightly, regaining his steady breathing. But something else caught onto his curiosity, something Dr. Defarge mentioned. "But why was Diana there?" He asked, more to himself. Why would she be at his apartment?

The doctor looked to the report. "She wrote here that you had been hit in the head by an individual, at their house rather then your own." He left out too much detail, not wanting to throw the memory at Neal. He looked to his watch, then advanced towards Neal, pulling out a small flash light from the coats chest pocket. "Just gonna check pupil response, seeing as to how all your vitals check out as stable. Just wait here until your discharge. You'll be given further instructions on how to take care of yourself once your ready to get out of here." He flashed the light into Neal's eyes, away and back to each. "Because of your anklet you'll have to leave with someone from the bureau, a cop, or whoever's responsible for you or admitted you in order to take you where you're supposed to be."

Neal grimaced, he hoped it wasn't prison, and if it was he didn't know what for, as a result of everything being so damn enigmatic. Well he had a general idea, but last he remembered, he managed to get Peter off his trail.

Patting the con man on the shoulder, Dr. Defarge smiled, nodded, and turned to leave, clipboard in hand. He tossed it in the bin with the manila folder by the door and proceeded with his job.

The doctor had explained that he told Neal all of this in hopes of easing his curiosity, but in fact, it only caused more. Neal wasn't into medicine, despite his intelligence on human anatomy, greatly influenced by Leonardo di ser Piero da Vinci's strategies in art, so being told everything about the injury to the head didn't really help much.

Sure he learned something, but he didn't really care about that since he didn't entirely need to treat it on his own, and with hire records, he'd never be accepted to a school in order to learn medicine, not that he wanted to.

Now he was more curious about what had caused it, who had hit him, and what was going on. Last he remembered he was at the apartment with Mozz who bidding him farewell in a rather solemn manner, so when did Diana and Jones come into the picture? And when had he been at a 'guests' house?

His head began to hurt. He closed his eyes, grimacing, breath hitching as it felt like he inhaled water through his nose. What was he missing? Why had he forgotten? Why was he here?

A loud echo tore through his ears.

Immediately he opened his eyes, expecting to see someone standing there, glaring at him, because the voice that belonged to the echo sounded angry. Very angry. And it had shouted his name.

His blue eyes watered, brows risen, as he looked around, hand reaching for the injury but retracting, in fear of feeling the pain if he touched it. "Peter?" He called out, because it wasn't hard to place the voice in his head with that of the agent.

He looked around for his belongings. Something wasn't right. Not with the hospital setting or report, but with what put him here. Something was very wrong. He looked for his phone, but found it nowhere. As a result, he looked for the plastic bag that he couldn't find which would hold his- Byron's blood stained clothing since he gave no authority to have it burned, rather he hoped he'd have to give the clear before they did such a thing. He looked for it in hopes that his cell phone would be there-

_Dropped…_

His gaze went blank, staring through all, as a memory hit him, time seemingly slowing.

_He had dropped his phone._

Just minutes after Mozzie had left, Neal decided to_ stand out on the terrace, looking over the cities lights, thinking over the last words Mozzie had told him, when he had gotten a call, from someone, but he wasn't sure who. The person on the other end had told him something, and almost immediately, the cell phone slipped from his hands. He remembered the sensation, as if time had slowed, as if someone had a gun to another's head and he rushed to save them, his feet moving towards the door, but slow, as if his shoes were made of led._

The white of the room around him called him back to reality, and he turned his head, allowing the memory played out, his surroundings fading as he went back to that Thursday.

_June called out his name, asking what was wrong but he didn't respond, he just ran down the stairs rather loudly, pulling the front door open with such strength and speed he could have possibly dented the wall with the door knob from impact._

_He ran into the streets and ran, ran, and kept running, blinded by his thoughts, the pain in his chest from the panting gone, he didn't even remember when he had slipped his suit jacket on or how he buttoned it, much less why he found the need to wear it in his fit of panic._

_A black van had passed him lightly but came to an immediate stop and honked, but Neal didn't give it any mind, it was probably some curious passerby wondering if he was running from someone. The van continued as Neal made no signs of stopping, both the van and the con man headed in opposite directions._

_Units, everywhere. _

That's right, he remembered, _he was at Peter's_, because of that call.

His eyes narrowed as he tried to remember what the call was about, but before the memories could spare a few seconds to allow him to find the answer, they continued.

_Diana was at top of the stairs, at the door yelling down towards Jones to give out certain instructions._  
><em>Jones stood at the base of the stairs putting out a hand, up towards Diana, in hopes that she would both shut up and calm down to indicate that he had the situation concerning orders under control. Diana turned as he told her to head back inside and demand that the others do their jobs while he handled those who would scout the city in their cars.<em>

_Neal was only half a block away. He didn't look both ways as he crossed the small open road and proceeded onto the streets side walk that belonged to the Burke's townhouse, only slowing as he neared the mess._

_Jones double glanced towards him, then back towards the lower units, telling them to go off and get on with their grunt work, his jaw visibly flexed towards him as Neal steadied a fast walking pace to close the gap, blue eyes glancing from the townhouse to Jones to the fleeting cars, sirens loud, some silent as they were FBI undercover cars meant to blend in in case they had to tail._

_Neal had asked something then, out of breath, keeping himself from doubling over as a result of the nausea and pain in his chest._

_Jones seemed humored, insulted by the question, turning his head away and licking his lips, trying to steady his temper, hands on his hips, his uniform suit jacket pulled back behind his wrists, curtaining them. The flaps fell back into place as one hand was clenched at the side of his gray slacks, the other hand in-between him and Caffrey, index finger out, expression changing. He was mad now._

_Jones had given out another laugh, hand falling. He slipped both hands into his pant pockets, trying to collect himself as he shifted. He looked towards his feet, nodding before looked up._

_Diana appeared at the door and hurried down the stairs, she paused a moment, catching sight of Neal, then shook her head, her pace strong, as if holding a very serious grudge, as she bowed her head away from Caffrey, shoving past him, shoulder hitting his. Neal turned, followed her as she approached a woman nearby, the door to the neighboring red bricked townhouse open- meaning that it was a neighbor, who seemed eager to talk._

Back at ICU Neal's gaze focused, he was staring at the curtain shades that covered most of the glass sliding door and window of the room.

What had Jones said? His jaw flexed as his teeth grit against each other. He had said some-

_Jones watched Diana as she passed them, then as if hesitant, looked towards Caffrey, eye contact strong, unfaltering._ "It's awfully brave of you to show your face 'round here, Caffrey." _He paused, his head tilted back lightly._ "Best leave before Peter gets back, or it's your carcass that we'll be carrying out along with evidence."_ He said steadily, rather pompous._

_Diana came back, ignoring Neal, not even glancing towards him, as the con man stared at both, entirely confused._ "Neighbor says she saw a black van. She was being dropped off by a cab from her late shift. She said her and the cabbie stayed in place, she didn't leave the car until the van drove off. She said Elizabeth was being held by more then one man, meaning that it wasn't Keller who personally came to take her. The woman reports a Jersey license plate that she managed to catch as the black van sped off, before she got out of the cab. Then the cabbie demanded that she call authorities."  
><em>Jones nodded and she told him she was going to go ask the other neighbors to confirm the witness statement.<em>

The world spun, Neal had to hold his stomach as he doubled over on the bed and threw up on the ground.

Now Neal _remembered_...

His blue eyes remained on the white tile of the ICU room floor, the monitors still surprisingly steady.

His brows knotted as he breathed heavily, trying to catch himself from the gags that racked his body.

The frame of a shadow stained the ground, and Neal followed it, curiously, blinking at his watery eyes as a result from the heaving.

The back of his hand wiped at a corner of his lip that had some saliva and unpleasant guck from the empty contents of his stomach. He followed it, the shadow, towards the door that was now open.

Like staring into the face of death itself, if not the devil there stood the man who nearly killed him, former friend, and seemingly gone rogue agent, Peter Burke.

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><p><strong>AN -** If I read a chapter like this… I would have continuously rolled my eyes and pulled at my hair. I hate hospital scenes, really do, am sick of them, and being taught about skull fractures when it should be more about the angst, Neal and Peter, isn't something to look forward to when reading. I just hope you guys looked past all the boring stuff and considered it a learning token for nothing other then impressing others.  
>Another thing, major time shift. I think last the season left off it was summer, me vaguely remember the mention of failing AC systems and heat- but I wanted to follow up with the date in which the season returns.<p>

Also-  
>Artist Leonado's full name is Leonardo di ser Piero da Vinci. Di, and da mean of and fromthe, so Leonardo of ser Piero from Vinci. Ser is probably from his fathers name Messer Piero, taking the last three letters from his first name and placing it before Piero, the family name. Ser can also be seen as sir. So, Leonardo of sir Piero from Vinci.

**Please review. Even if it was boring. Point on any mistakes, etc, anything that confused or bothered you. I really do want to welcome feedback. **


	3. Morphine

**PLEASE READ IN 1/2 STORY FORMAT WIDTH BECAUSE THAT'S HOW THIS WAS WRITTEN :D**

A/N- Don't hate me for this chapter. I promise it'll be alright later.

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><p>The room chilled, or rather, Neal figured it was only him.<p>

Peter stood there, bearing no gifts, no cards, no flowers, no ridiculously meaningful cheap item that would mean to offend Neal Caffrey's tendency to melt at such expensive items. And his face wasn't that usual father lecturing his son with a gaze expression.

It was cold, strong. He wasn't glaring. He was staring, as if unimpressed, as if he couldn't be bothered with anything, almost hollow.

If it wasn't for the different suit, Neal would have thought he had seen Peter just minutes ago, momentarily forgetting it had been five days since the incident.

He remembered now, his trembling hand reaching out for the nurse call button, wondering if the man should even be in the same room with the con man that was blamed for everything that was happening.

Peter still held that expression. The same damned expression before Neal was on the ground, that gaze that fooled Neal into believing that approaching him further to place a comforting hand on his shoulder was safe, and in response, the con man felt completely open to any other physical violence that might happen. The expression that said nothing, yet hid everything, every desire from the agent- the desire to break Caffrey, to injure him until every bone in his body was broken.

Because the reality of it all was that Neal's habit of squirming and playing in the gray area of the system resulted in Elizabeth's kidnapping due to Keller's impatience, on both ends.

His mind races back to the incident in the kitchen.

He remembered how his blue eyes had quickly caught on to Peter's trained hand. The agent had turned his body away to face the oven, where Elizabeth once stood, and Neal got close, eyes to the stove top as well. That's when Peter's right hand shot out and grabbed hold on the large cooking pots handle. Neal's eyes followed instinctively, and before he could even finish saying Peter's name, the open top of the pots edge hit him in the head.

His knees gave out, as the sensation burst upon impact, as if being punched, with a resulting hollow migraine setting in along the left temporal lobe of his head. He felt his eyes roll back, his arms shooting out, hands trying to grab hold of something, but failing, however his arms being out resulted in him landing on all fours rather than face first.

Then the rest was a messy blur.

Peter's brown eyes fell towards Neal's hand that hovered over the button. He stepped in, turning around to close the door behind him, almost as if trying to be gentle. He didn't turn towards Caffrey as he walked from the door to the nearby window that spared a great view, rather depressing showcase of the brick wall across the hospital, something that seemed to stir well in the agent. His hands were in his pant pockets, today he sported a similar dark gray suit as he did Thursday, the button up shirt and tie different.

There was a long tense silence, Neal not wanting to break it, because it wasn't awkward, it was anxious, frightening. Neal felt the world spin around him. Keller with a gun to his face was nothing in comparison to a silent Peter with his back turned, his expression only stating the obvious- they hadn't found El yet, or, Peter was here to tell Neal that he was being life sentenced to prison, on accounts of everything, even assault from when he pointed the gun at Fowler almost two years ago.

Peter looked away from the window and turned, a steady, eerily calm pace towards the other side of Neal's bed, the con mans eyes wary, as Peter neared the hand that hovered over the call button.

The agent took hold of the button and placed it away from Neal's reach- aware that Neal could move, but not much due to the wires hooked up to his arm.

If anyone else was in the room those few moment, one could almost call the expression on Neal hopeless, as if on the verge of breaking, not from intimidation, but realization.

This was not his former friend Peter Burke, this was not the man who had saved Neal's life so many times, this was Agent Burke, the man who despised him, who wanted the con man to rot in jail, to suffer, to die alone. Whatever traces of their friendship that had lingered in the last few months had diminished.

Peter might as well had had the damn executioner in the room to lead him back to prison and sit him in the lethal chair because Neal couldn't take the thought of being forgotten, left in a prison cell alone and unloved.

Because it was true, he realized. He was alone, because he had forced himself into that position.

Alex was gone, and she would abandon him like he did her when they first stole the music box in France all those years ago, he didn't visit her in the hospital, he just sent a note. In her mockery, she would do the same.

Kate was dead, was murdered, in a burst of flames, no body to burry, her ashes mixed in with the planes debris.

Sarah was gone as well, unable to take Neal's con life, unable to live a life of recollecting what Neal had stolen, not willing to run away from her life, family, friends, never to talk to them again, and she wondered how Neal could consider doing the same, could leave her behind just like that. Even when he said he was going to ask her to tag along, she didn't feel at ease, she felt betrayed, betrayed that Neal would simply sacrifice all of this good in life that he finally managed to find, to just run away until the day he died.

Jones and Diana probably hated him more then anything. They probably kept him alive that day in order to ensure that he was later put in cuffs by Peter himself.

Elizabeth was hopefully still alive, and perhaps that's what Peter came to tell him, in a rather smug tone. But even so, how could she forgive him? She was taken by an obsessed killer who stomped his feet and crossed his arms when he didn't get what he wanted, because of him, because of this little game.

Peter. Peter would never forgive him for this betrayal. Their friendship would never be the same. Because if anything, Neal looked like a sociopath, lying, pretending all this time in order to get what he wanted, his freedom back, his illegal con life back, but that wasn't the case.  
>He wanted to explain, he wanted to reason, but who would believe the words from one of the worlds best con mans lips? Every movement, every expression was a lie to someone like Peter.<p>

His silver tongue was once something wonderful, amazing. Now it was a curse.

And Mozzie, he was gone, left feeling betrayed by his former best friend. Rumor was he didn't have a heart, but he did, and it was soft, it was kind, and Neal burned a hole right through it, in place of the bullet that nicked it.

It was Mozzie who had helped him become who he was today, scrapping away at the vile con Adler sculpted after they both realized what kind of man he was. It was Mozzie who picked a broke penniless Neal from nearly living in the streets with fast food take-outs as a daily meal in order to create a man with a notorious reputation.

At this point, Mozzie was probably gone with the money he received from the Degas, living on his private island reading up books on conspiracy, vaguely remembering Neal, but smiling sardonically whenever he'd remembered what he last told the young man - 'You're only fooling yourself if you think this is who you really are'.

Because Neal had realized his happy ending ended there, with whatever innocence he had left and gathered, his con life behind him. Now it would seem laughable.

He realized he could walk out that door, leaving the life in which he had carefully recollected after escaping, and he would be found again by Peter, because that's all it would truly be, a continuous chase, and Neal could never escape the agent and his reliable intelligence. Where was the relaxation in that life? Sipping piña colladas by the shore of the terrace of a loft and he'd be wary of a prying eye.

He could leave Peter, Elizabeth, Sarah, Diana, Jones, June, her daughter, her grand daughter, everything he had behind, just by simply leaving that apartment door.

But he didn't, he stayed in his leash, in Junes top floor studio apartment, sacrificing his best friend in hopes of living a normal life, because he realized, and had told Mozzie, that if he were to walk out of that door, he'd never be able to walk back in. Imagine all the trust he'd burn? Or whatever scraps were left of it before the incident exploded?

He could stay here, in New York, his home, where he could use his intelligence in better, legal, ways, perhaps finding himself with the bureau one day, working with Peter.

He remembered how he would lay in his bed and stare out the skyline, the thought crossing his mind for the first time as he looked at the pastel orange sky with a tinge of pink with outstretched clouds, he had laughed. What a thought, he shook his head, but then the smile had faded, and he was left alone, laying in his bed after a long days work, alone.

Back at the ICU, he looked up to Peter, who kept an eye on the call button that was far from arms length. Brown eyes didn't meet blue. And Neal was glad for that, because he hadn't realized how dewed his eyes were.

Neal looked away, towards the window on the other side of the room where Peter gazed out of. In the stir of the recent moments from his waking, he didn't even get the chance to notice the window. His eyes darted around, tears welling up, lips lightly parted as he tried to collect his breath, trying to hide from the agent, just like the day he sat at the table at home, and in a fit of rage he tossed everything off the table, proceeding by sketching something with charcoal that he later tossed as well, running his hands through his messy hair, the black staining his fingers and later on the skin of his forehead. He looked just like that moment, when his clasped hands were placed over his trembling lips, elbows propped on the table as if to hold him up rather then the position of his forearms.

He was alone.

Upon realizing this, he could care less if Peter decided to smother him with the hospital pillow. Neal would even toss out the idea of leaving a note telling the doctors and nurses that he off'ed himself because he didn't want to go to prison.  
>Hell, he'd be willing to add the additional touches of slit wrists or inject himself with the concoctions in the cabinets with the sterile syringes in the drawers himself. He didn't care. He would rather die now then live alone, and rot in prison until the day he grew gray and old.<p>

Hell, if he ended up in prison by the end of the day, he'd get into a fight with some crazy guy who sneaked a knife welded by the food court tables metal bars, to get stabbed until he just bled to death.

Neal's jaw visibly flexed. The drugs pumping into him were making him too emotional he realized.

"I was put off the case." Peter finally said in strange calmness.

Neal didn't look back or nod. So Elizabeth wasn't found. He made no indication that he heard, he guessed as much. He brought the blanket to his nose to wipe away the running mucus, so that he didn't sniffle. As if Peter didn't know already.

Clearing his throat, Neal steadied his breathing. "Why are you here? Do you want my help since you're not allowed to do anything?" He silently cursed realizing how congested he sounded as he nearly muttered the latter of the sentence.

He looked to Peter, and could almost see the humor in his eyes at such a comical question- Neal realized it sounded as if he was assured that he wasn't going to go to prison because he'd thought Peter needed to use him again.  
>Neal looked away, ashamed. "If you came to finish me off then go for it." He blinked rapidly, trying to rid the wetness in his eyes. "I know that it's my fault. All of it."<p>

Peter didn't say anything at first, but from the corner of his eye Neal could see him nod as he looked to the ground, shifting. "Yeah, well Caffrey, tell that to those who'll question you once you're outta here. Confess to them, not me." He said with a sigh, so casual, just like old times.

"Then why are you here…?" Neal quickly added, turning to look at him, not missing the fact that Peter called him by his surname.

Peter looked to those eyes, blue and dewed. But he wasn't affected, he wasn't worried.

"Well Agent Burke? Are you here to haul me off to prison? To rot there, not have a chance of ever seeing the outside world again?" His voice almost cracked as his own words hit him hard, but he smirked, mockingly, as if he had any right- he thought to himself.  
>This was becoming real. Too real. The world began to spin. But he steadied himself by breathing, the next words coming out in a shaky whisper. "Because I swear to you Peter Burke, you better kill me now or I'll find a way to make your vengeance a comical single days worth when I get to prison." He threatened with his own unmentioned plan of death, a swallow steadying whatever strength he had from breaking down.<p>

He blamed the light amount of morphine they put in him to dull the pain. Because last time he was on the stuff, he had nearly cried in front of Peter when he said he trusted the man more then anyone else. He was getting overly emotional, even suicidal at the thought of prison and loneliness. And he thought for some reason Peter would care.

"Not here to send you off to prison." Peter shrugged with a light shake of his head. "I'm off duty, other people will do that for me." Peter answered rather bluntly, Neal could almost catch the smugness in those words.

So Peter's intention was to dump him back into some prison cell. Neal instantly felt sick, the world spinning as he looked away, in case he had to throw up- better on the other side then on the agents shoes.

"Then just get on with it and leave." Neal demanded, not sure as to why he felt angry all of a sudden when he blamed himself entirely for the death of Kate, for Sarah and Alex's broken hearts, for Diana and Jones if not the whole bureaus hate in him, for Mozzie's near death, for Elizabeth's kidnapping, for Peter's current state.  
>But he also felt that he didn't need to respect the man who wasn't currently on duty, and who had no indication of killing Neal at the moment. "Just tell me and go." He almost begged. All of this was beginning to become too much. All of it was hitting him hard. The stress, the anxiety, the depression, the damn effect of the morphine spiking his emotions. He was being a wimp, and he hated it. It was enough to want a bath in acid to rid of it from her person. He smiled lightly as he would remember when he got like that, and Peter would demand that he 'cowboy up' with a point of a finger and a light glare.<p>

But in truth, who could not feel an overwhelming sense of guilt when realizing that all of the bad was their own fault. From the start, before he met Kate or Alex, just after he met Mozz, when he decided to trust Adler, or to play games with Keller. No, this was his fault when he decided to become who he was today, a fake, a man with nothing but a tracking anklet and the suits of a dead man.

"I've come to…" Peter paused, his head hanging, though his face was the same stoic expression he had when he came in, when he was in the kitchen moments before losing himself in a fit of rage. But it was rather calculated, though the con man couldn't see it, didn't notice the wince in the tired features of the older man.

Neal didn't brace himself this time though, wouldn't let his instincts get to him, he'd welcome the blow this time.

Peter cleared his throat. "I've come to thank you." He finished. A long pause followed, and Neal looked to him. "You've lied to us all, for these past three years. You are, always were and always will be a lie, Caffrey, but despite it all you helped us catch people who had also wronged. I realize now that you did it in order to make me put a thread of trust on you, to believe you, and to keep you from prison so that you could run and lead the life you always have. I realize that you demanded this C.I bullshit so that the circumstances would be different." His tone was raising, but he paused, catching his breathe, a hand cupping his forehead as he hung his head, trying to calm down. His next words came out with ease. "Because if you had left prison when your sentence ended, I'd chase you without hesitation. But because of this, because you were under my radar, because you saved my life and of others, you conned a friendship that was," He paused, a small smile on his lips, but it wasn't kind. "Never real to begin with." His hand dropped from his forehead and he stood straight with an air of confidence. "You've played us all. All these years. And despite it all, I've come to thank you for helping us." He chuckled the last part, looking to the ceiling as if asking for forgiveness for thanking a criminal with kind few words. He closed his eyes, turned up face leveling, then hanging as he pressed his lips. His eyes opened and he looked to Neal. "And to also tell you goodbye, and that I never," He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth, trying to keep his temper calm. "I never want to see your face again." He spat, barely above a whisper, voice trembling with rage.

Neal's face fell. The words seemingly going uphill but crashing just where he hoped the remnants wouldn't fall, stabbing at his chest.

Peter looked to the ground for a moment after catching Neal's expression. His eyes lifted along with his chin as he returned his gaze. "After today, after I turn my back and leave this room, I don't want to see, or hear from you, ever again. No more birthday cards, no mysterious anonymous phone calls, no little clues or letters, no favors." He put an arm out, palm towards the ceiling. "After this," That same hand turned into a balled fist, only his index finger out as it pointed towards the ground. "After here," The finger now pointed towards Neal as his head angled to the side lightly as it so usually did when he was trying to coax his enemies with a quiet controlled threat. "I could care less on what happens to a little shit like you, you hear me?"

Neal winced, the tone, words, so familiar, traumatizing. It took awhile, but he nodded, realizing that Peter was waiting for his signs of understanding.

Nodding, the agent turned towards the door, but before turning completely, he paused. "And Caffrey, if my wife is found dead because of you…" He paused, and Neal couldn't honestly think of what else he could lay on him to make matters worse as he looked away. He could care less if he dies now. What else could Peter threaten him with? Peter shook his head as he turned away, almost reading Neal's mind. "I'll arrest Sarah as an accomplice," He turned to face Neal. "And I will," He nodded, brows raised. "Trust me-… Find Mozzie." His expression darkened, but then a smile came to his lips, as if rejoicing. "And hell, who knows? Maybe put him in the same prison as you'll spend the rest of your life at."

Neal's body tensed, eyes going wide towards the bed sheets. His hands balled into fists, knuckles white as he clenched the sheets. "Get out…" He whispered, and he couldn't tell if it was because he felt as if he was going to pass out, or because he was furious. He looked to Peter, glaring, as if the agent didn't understand him. "And don't you ever threaten my friends again." Peter smiled at 'friends'. Neal's eyes glanced towards the door, head motioning towards it. "Get out." He repeated, harshly, demanded, as the tears that collected finally fell from his eyes, but he was too angry to realize they had.

With slight hesitation, Peter shifted towards the door. With a single nod, he turned away, and walked out of the door, the nurses collecting at the door in a rush as the heart monitor flat line- as a result of Neal pulling the wiring out in a small fit of rage. They calmed as they realized that the man wasn't dying, but tried to settle him as he hunched over, hands covering his face, as he suppressed a scream in his palms, enraged.

All his fault, all of this. Not even his death would fix it.

He didn't realize his eye lids were pressed shut until he opened them with a shaky breath, the world around him going silent, the sensation of a sleek, warm greasy like liquid coating his arms, the shouts barely echoing. His body went numb, allowing those around him to do as they wished, as he stared out into the emptiness of the world, the fragments of friendship he had carefully collected with Peter now lay shattered around him, and like the snow that failed to stick in the coldest of winters, the pieces dissolved into the dark tar of the recreated world.

The black shade so sickening, taunting him as his mind spun, as he blinked, later realizing he was doing nothing of the sort, his head falling back into the pillows, as the sounds of machines wailed around him, the greasy once warm liquid now cold as it settled onto his skin.

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><p>AN - I was going to get rid of this chapter. I didn't like it. It bothered me, that gut feeling, but I already knew how the story was going to develop so I decided that despite myself, I was gonna place this here and have the story unfold rather quickly, you know, get all the emotional mess out there, the biggest segments, rather then have Neal be a little wimp throughout the whole thing.  
>So yes folks, I too, as well, thought it was cowardly of Peter to hit Neal in the head with a cooking pan, but I digress, I think it was done out of murderous rage.<br>See how I'm not even sure? I write out what plays in my head, and, that's what happened.  
>I think in a sense Peter was reaching out towards the last item his wife was tending to before the incident, and in a fit of sudden rage as Neal approached him, he grabbed hold of it and whacked him.<p> 


	4. The Greatest Cake

**PLEASE READ THIS STORY IN 1/2 PAGE WIDTH, OPTION LOCATED ON TOP RIGHT, TO KEEP FORMAT THIS WAS WRITTEN IN**

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><p><strong>AN-** Sorry about the delay! I was having writers block. I know how this story will end, I know what falls into place and when towards the end, but the middle is just a bit confusing to get right.  
>I'm sorry about the last 2 chapters. I hated them. I really did. But I just wanted to get through and over with them so that the real story take place.<p>

I hope you enjoy this chapter. :) And yes I had fun accenting and emphasizing with bold and italics- cause it was_ only_ fitting. You'll see what I mean.

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><p>When he came to, a rather young brunette hovered over him.<p>

In response, he smiled, but she didn't look towards him, instead, she looked down towards his arm.

His eyes looked at every angle of her young face, deciding that she looked around twenty five or younger. He was still smiling, as though he woke up from a good nights sleep, next to his girlfriend, as he would with Kate or Sara whenever they woke up before him, watching him sleep.

He had always preferred it to be the other way around, but they had said they looked horrible when they slept, Sara even joked that she drooled as a result of having braces when she was younger, sleeping with her lips parted more than eased for comfort.

But what they didn't know was that Neal was a late sleeper, while they slept rather early. He'd pretend he was busy forging around the time he was with Kate, waiting for her to sleep, or watching as she drifted off from the easel he sat at.

Or he'd pretend to look over his research papers in case files that Peter had given him that day when Sara came over, as if he didn't already solve it, but was in truth looking for hints of Kate's killer before the pieces snapped together.

Whenever he'd peel his eyes from his work to look at them to check on their state of slumber, they'd warmly smile at him, not asking him to come to bed, not pestering, because they understood, and accepted, both Kate and Sara, in both respective cases- art and forging, or working and solving.

Once asleep, Neal would put the finishing touches to whatever he was doing and would head to the bed, that was never out of site or in another room, as with Kate when they lived together in a studio flat, or with Sara in the studio apartment at June's.

He would slowly get onto the mattress, slipping under the covers, and would lay on his side, looking at them, respecting both their every flaw, accepting it, as a means of perfection that marked the individuality of people, and if not, marred the exterior perfection that people weren't so keen on letting show, hiding themselves because they were too scared to look ugly, messy, or out of place.

He realized that's why Kate always wore long sleeves, because she didn't like the size of her arms. Or as to why Sara was so thin, because she thought it made her perfect.

The nurse finally noticed and looked up, her brown eyes looking into Neal's, drawn in before looking away with a small smile. "You're awake, Mr. Caffrey." She obviously stated for sake of conversation. "I was hoping you'd hide those blue eyes before I left the room. I've always envied them." She stated, as if she knew him long before. She noticed the strangeness in her words and shook her head lightly. "I was the one checking most of your vital signs in your comatose state during those four nearly five days."

Neal nodded and looked away towards the ceiling. "What happened?" He asked.

"You were sedated. You had a fit earlier. It's common in people who are recovering from a basal fracture-"

"Basal what?" He looked to her, genuinely confused.

It worried her for a moment. "Oh, Dr. Defarge probably said it was basilar? It's the same thing, different name." He clarified with a light shrug, taping the IV back into place. Neal looked to it, wondering why she did such a thing. "Needed to check on the cuts and treat them. You pulled out your IV's in a fit of rage. Nothing too bad though, just light scratches, only one of them is pretty bad but nothing untreatable with some over the counter antibiotics."

"So I take it with those few instructions I'm nearing the time of my discharge?" Neal asked, looking to her with a small hopeful smile, though he was far from it.

She nodded, looking to him with a sigh of relief, on his behalf, knowing full well how unlikable hospitals are. "Yes, fortunately. Dr. Defarge was unsure on it after the incident, but decided it was for the best, relating it to your prolonged stay."

Neal nodded, eyes to the ceiling. Did they not see Peter leave? Because that was also a tall tell sign of why what happened, happened at all.

"All done." She chided as she placed the final bandage. He looked down, noticing three simple thin and small bandages, and another a large. "Don't scratch at those or the one on your head, they'll itch, but that's because they're healing." She explained, eyes to the pile of bandage wrappers she was collecting into her latex glove covered hands, headed for the bin to toss them.

"Thank you." Neal smiled, adjusting himself on the bed to sit up lightly.

She glanced towards him and nodded with a smile, holding the bin open with a foot on the pedal, as she slipped the latex gloves off. Once tossed she turned and grabbed the doors handle, opening it.

Before she could take a full step out, "Hey," Neal called out. She stopped and looked to him. "Don't be ashamed of your eye color. Brown's a rather beautiful and enigmatic color, the dark color compliments the face, especially if you have brown or dark hair." He smiled in his usual charm. "I'm rather envious."

Her eyes darted away from his, flattered, but she composed herself quick, and smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Caffrey.-"

"Neal." He interrupted.

She nodded. "Right. Someone else will come by later with your discharge papers." She smiled shyly. "Take care." And with that, she was off.

Neal watched before he looked towards the ceiling. What the hell was wrong with him?

"That's not the Neal that I know."

His blue eyes drifted from the bed sheets and towards the door.

A smile greeted him, full of confidence, brows risen, rather mockingly, the attire questionable, but fitting the person, somehow, despite all the floral pattern-

"You look like a shell of your former self, my friend." He smiled lightly as he turned and closed the door lightly behind him, looking to Neal then around the room. "I'm surprised I even made it this far." He made a face.

"Mozzie?-"

"I know, I know," Mozzie interrupted, putting his hands out. "What am I doing here rather then in the tropical resorts of a self purchased island, and well, that, I can easily explain-"

"What are you wearing…?" Neal interrupted as he looked from the white expensive slip on shoes that looked as if they were made of cotton, no socks accompanied, pretty clear from his matching white pants of thin threaded fabric that exposed his naked ankles. His shirt was a dark midnight button up tropical shirt with yellow blooming floral patterns from nearly every inch.

Mozzie's hands dropped and he let out an unsatisfied sigh. "I leave you behind, you don't see me for days, you think I've **_abandoned_ **you, and the **first** thing you question is my new sense of fashion? Which, must I defend, _relates_ **completely** to the task I was _going_ to fulfill but **couldn't** thanks to the **Suit** and his **_friends_**." He said, as casually as ever when it came to Neal, well, if Mozzie could be considered a casual speaker.

"So you know that Peter's looking for you?" Neal almost sighed. His next words after the question would have been a stern demand that he leave since he was being hunted down by a man with little remorse at the moment.

Mozzie nodded, seemingly unsurprised, he hummed lightly to add to the answer. "So far he's gotten at least a _single_ step behind in contrast to the usual** twenty five paces**, but I managed to slip and mask my further destinations."

Neal almost deadpanned him with his face alone, asking to be humored. "Oh," His brows shot up. "Yeah, and hiding in the hospital room of the man he wants dead and will no doubt demand surveillance on, in case you show up, is a great idea Moz." He nodded as he looked away, exhausted.

"Look, Neal, don't worry. I've got it _all_ under control. No one saw me come in-"

"Surprisingly." He didn't turn to eye the attire, that screamed the Bahamas, not winter in New York.

"And no one will see me leave." Mozzie pressed, officially Zen today. He put his hands down and walked towards the chair placed next to Neal's bed rather slowly, as if buying time, head hung, hands clasped behind his back. He finally looked up, as he stood over Neal, his kind eyes to the younger mans tired ones. "I leave tomorrow. Don't want a hospital visit and a trip to the tropics to be the end of this adventure. Surely the suit will catch on by midnight."

Neal looked to him, expression as if trying to be spared from further bullshit or explanations. "Moz, why are you telling me this-"

"You wanna come with?" He added, looking to the machines before he settled onto Neal, brows raised. "I can get you out. A friend who's further helping me in my leaving has a bag of your clothes in a trunk. Don't worry, June hand picked them, not I, due to the undutiful displeasure of having my tastes when it comes to your _carefully_. **selected**. **_attire_**." He dramatically added the last few words with a waft and roll of his hand.

Neal pressed his lips into a poorly crafted smile, one that he was trying to make seem thankful but a bit sad, which only turned out to look rather angry. He noted it by the way Mozzie looked away and nervously shifted as he turned to face the wall across from him- something he usually did when Neal seemed to disapprove of something he favored from the **ex** con man who was currently in a room he had no way of getting out of without being noticed, since he was-

Oh wait...

He looked down to his current clothing.

So Mozzie didn't convince them to allow Neal scrubs rather then a gown for a reason.

Neal looked down to the scrubs, his IV and wire free arm reaching to pull at the V neck collar, and back to Mozzie, brow raised, the shorter man looking away with a small smile, his expression alone stating that he knew his friend had caught on- however Neal made no approving expression in return. Rather, he seemed pissed.

"Mozzie, I**_ can't_**." He sighed, letting go of the collar, the hand that once held it now slightly tousling at the bangs that would often fall onto his forehead back into a comfortably sleek manner. Normally he would be frustrated with the feeling of being in a hospital bed with poor hygiene and hair that wasn't perfectly styled- but right now, the train had hit his nice car and he was left there to stare as it was scrapped under the wheels- a poor comparison to his current emotions, he thought, but he couldn't think of anything better as his eyes moved to look towards Mozzie who stood there, face fallen in a peeved, unappreciative manner.

"Neal-"

"Look," Neal interrupted, fully aware of where his friend was going with this. "I appreciate what you and June are doing, especially June, but," He held a hand out. "I can't." He shook his head, brows knotted. "I can't just run. I'll look guilty. And Elizabeth-"

"Is Peter's **wife**." Mozzie interrupted, tone dark, words heavy, as he stared at Neal with the slightest hint of a glare- something Mozzie hardly pulled well. "This isn't your case anymore Neal. Elizabeth Burke is Peter Burke's wife. It's _**his**_ case now and his case only." He held his arms out. The fact that he was using their real names rather then the nicknames that only shouted his distaste in their position meant that he was rather serious. His arms fell to his sides, as they awkwardly usually were. His expression softened. "Neal, Keller is _after **you**_. Is after **us**. If you, if I," His index finger pointed towards Neal then towards him in a repetitive back and forth motion. "If **_we_** stay, we'll get taken hosta-" He interrupted, his arms enthusiastically presenting an explosion. "**Forget** hostage! We'll get murdered on the spot once we lead them to the treasure in hopes of surviving!" He sputtered, Neal sensing the panicked edge in his voice that was reserved to hurry the situation. "Now you've got the scrubs, and despite this disturbing setting of killers in uniforms and rooms that are indeed not sanitized, you still look like a man who can get passed a few with that smile," He paused making a wave towards him as he went towards the door. "C'mon," He pushed as if coaxing a dog to go back indoors.

Neal only stared at him in response when Mozzie stopped his movement, to stare at his friend rather expectantly. "Mozz-"

"The machines will go off as soon as you unhook yourself. Fortunately, your room is close to a staircase. We get to the floor **above** the lobby and head towards the back staircase that will lead to the fire exit behind the building where our ride awaits." Mozzie quickly explained, enthusiastically, just like old days, but with no smile, just flustered impatience. But his hand fell as he realized that Neal wasn't budging. "Look, finding Mrs. Suit will be much easier if you're running through sources on the outside world sipping on fruit cocktails along the shore. You're only waiting to be boxed at the supermax at this rate."

And that did it, Mozzie decided as he caught Neal's brows minutely furrow then relax in attempts to hide the fact that he was being reeled in, despite his previous arguments and statements that made the answer so clear before, now balanced.

If Neal ran, if he got out of this bed and ran, he'd have to regard the situation. He'd look suspicious. There was no way he could look beyond that. He was pretty sure no one could. Who knew who trusted him now, and the Burke's were out of the list, mostly likely with everyone in the bureau, and all of his sources; well, who knew with the criminal underground? They probably caught ear to the situation and praised Neal, thinking he was playing the agent all along.

That could come as a strong advantage in his escape in hopes to track Keller and take him down, with Peter or not. But that also left him at a disadvantage, because what then? After he uses his and Mozzie's sources, what if Neal isn't allowed back into the life he led with the bureau? Would those who helped him track Keller down with illegal methods rather kill him this time other then just spit on his nice leather shoes?

That would mean that Keller was no longer going to be the single issue.

Neal hadn't realized he involuntarily grimaced at the thought of the mans name as it echoed in his head.  
>Last time they put Keller behind bars, the man slipped past with his callous methods. This time, could he allow Keller to just fall back into prison? He knew Peter would kill the man, without hesitation once Elizabeth was safe. But could he, Neal thought, commit to taking the life of another to keep those he cares about safe?<p>

"Neal." Mozzie pressed, waving towards the door.

With a swallow that rid the suffocating lump in his throat, Neal looked to his friend, towards the door, towards the life outside, nurses and doctors buzzing about, and occasional cop trying to settle his business with a victim or suspect who either landed in ER or ICU, or simple security roaming about. He looked to his arm, the bandages, the needles that seemed to tug at the bruised skin around the insertion.

The pain of removing them would swiftly be forgotten with the adrenaline. He somewhat hoped Mozzie could be Hollywood dramatic, and have a button that would kill the machines all together, something cliché, but that wasn't going to happen.

Looking up, Neal stared into the eyes of his long time friend, but with an expression of determination rather the hesitation.  
>"Coast?" Neal demanded, hand holding the wiring as he watched his friend open the door and poke his head out before bringing it back in.<p>

Mozzie nodded. "Clear." He timed the answer as a young nurse briskly walked past the open door.

"How far are we from the stairs?" Neal asked, his hand shaking as he gripped the wires.

Mozzie stood silent for a moment, calculating the situation in his mind, with the answer to that question, and more ahead. "About seven feet from your door. Not far- oh!" He paused, digging into his pants, pulling out a small plastic name badge covered with a plastic holder, a slit at the edge for a clip that Mozzie fished out of his other pocket. "Took this from a murse running on his heels at the ER before I snuck in here." He nearly shivered at the thought. "I won't be surprised if I caught something." He muttered to himself as he took 3 wide steps towards Neal and tossed the name tag at Neal, clip in place. "Shoes are on the side of the bed." He pointed.

The name tag had landed on the foot of the bed, Neal glimpsed at it before he took it and clipped it onto the scrubs chest pocket. "Doesn't even remotely look like me." Neal muttered as he secured it into place, looking towards his friend who retreated back towards the door.

Mozzie threw his arms out. "Yeah, well who does Mr. eleven?" He nodded it off, rhetorically asking, looking back out the door.

"I should feel flattered that you just rated me outside the one to ten ranking system." Neal chided, his voice falling to a near silent mutter, "But I don't." He turned, legs dangling off the bed, reaching down to place a rather distasteful pair of shoes onto his white socked feet.

Mozzie could have rolled his eyes with the way his face looked when he turned to Neal again. "Ready?"

"Just give me a quick run through again." Neal favored, but with no uncertainty to his voice.

However, Mozzie gave him a look, that questioned the need for repetition, since Neal was always on point, no matter the briefness on explanation.  
>He eyed the rather unruly scar on Neal's head that snuck past the band-aid a bit. "We rush to the staircase at a reasonable pace. You push me along towards the doors as I seem to cry over the loss of a loved one. We then<em> hurry<em> down the stairs until we get to floor **two**. We take a **right** into a rather secluded and lightly surveillanced hallway, but no doubt they'll see our faces, and the **Suit** will look for them in the cameras. We take another right into a busy room, then pace _towards_ the far back, which leads to the back of the hospital, we run down another flight of stairs, and into an area where employees usually leave the building from, or where people dump the light trash. There's one camera out around the door but the car is located on the far end of the road. We'll have to run to it. And that is all." Mozzie explained with ease, but kept his voice from rising with impatience as Neal would usually look away somewhat confused from time to time. "Ready?" He asked again.

Neal gripped the wires, then gave his most reassuring of smiles. "Ready." He grinned.

Mozzie turned towards the door, Neal waiting for the signal. He took a step forward but stopped mid-way, Neal stopping the pull at the same time. "Just like old times?" Mozzie asked, a single brow risen.

He smiled as Neal's old con assured expression came into play. "_Just_ like old times."

As soon as Neal responded, Mozzie took a step out, looking around before lightly weeping. That was the signal, Neal decided, and he immediately pulled the IV's out, along with any wire attached to him monitoring his every heart beat, his every breath, and providing him with fluids.  
>He hissed and cursed, the ones that stuck to his chest burning soon after the pull. He had no time to complain, however, and he set his stoic expression as he walked out the door, hand on Mozzie's back as he steered the shorter man away and towards the left, walking down the hall. There he saw the staircase.<p>

They both kept in character, walking quickly towards the door, Mozzie crying, mumbling incoherently, rather dramatically so, as he sobbed into his arms that hit his face. Neal would soothingly rub at his back trying to provide as much comfort as he could while his other hand tugged at the V-neck collar of his scrubs to hide the red marks that the pasted wires from the heart monitor left behind.

They kept in character as the door swung open and both slipped past it with ease, not breaking a sweat as the adrenaline shot through both of them as the sounds of nurses rushed to Neal's now empty room as the heart monitors screamed a flat line.

Both kept calm as they ran down the stairs in a hurried pace.

_By now the nurses have found the empty bed with a sprawl of wires over and aside the mattress. _

_In four seconds they'll go check the bathroom to see if Neal was using it to take a quick shower or just using the toilet._

_In less then one they'll realize that Neal isn't in there- and Neal cursed as he figured that leaving the shower running with a closed door would have bought them more time._

_They would stare at the empty bathroom for about three seconds, absorbing the fact that a man with a tracking anklet is not in the room. And they didn't truly know what the tracking anklet was there for. Their minds would implode as thoughts of a charming killer would spring into their creative minds._

Neal and Mozzie were on the third floor now.

_In five seconds they would rush the halls in silent search for him with darting eyes before approaching security. In less then two seconds those security guards would call it in after a seven to ten second explanation of the situation from a worried or calm nurse. In five seconds the security guard would get a response asking for a description, and** ah**,** there** it was, ten to twenty seconds bought as the nurse would blabber with trying to remember Neal's face- because working at hospitals only meant you saw hundreds of faces every day._

Neal and Mozzie were already walking down the secluded hall on the second floor, towards the end, ready to take a right.

_Maybe this nurse was his regular and remember him, so then she'd probably only take ten seconds to describe him, because black hair, blue eyes, and a handsome face wouldn't cut it, and they'd have to look into his files to know his height since he hasn't taken much of a stand around them since he's woken up._

Which reminded him as to why he felt so sick, dizzy, and tired at the sudden rush, thanking the adrenaline pumping through his body to keep him going and alert.

By the time the announcement was spoken through the intercom, Neal and Mozzie pushed through the back doors that led to the far back staircase. Neal had to grip the railing as they sped down the last flight of stairs that would lead them to the employee, which also served as an emergency, exit.

With as much strength as he could muster as he practically leaped down the last three steps, Neal pushed the door open with enough force to allow Mozzie time to slip passed it before it closed.

Neal glanced over his shoulder to his friend who seemed out of breath. "C'mon!" He almost yelled as he sprinted towards the waiting car that was on. So someone else was in on this, Mozzie wasn't being imaginative or ready to prove his acting skills as chauffeur.

Mozze groaned irritably, catching up by a few paces.

Both had to stop in order to open the back seat doors, and with unfound grace, they slipped into the back seat, Mozzie on the left, shutting his door first, loudly, Neal second, rather struggling with his sapping strength.

The driver already pushed on the gas before Neal's door completely closed, so they were able to catch the slight noise of the door they escaped from in the back open, followed by a few curses, the sound of burning rubber voluminously over the sound that worried Neal.

Neal looked behind him, spotting a rather round security guard, unwilling to follow, speaking into his radio.

With a sigh and a roll of his blue eyes, Neal turned to properly sit in his seat, taking a few breathes before searching for his seat belt, his injured arm aching, his head throbbing, his dry throat making the cold intakes of breath painful. The sharp turn of the car only made it worse on his head that nearly hit the window to his right, though the injury was on his left, his head moving in the slightest made it hurt, so straining the muscles in his neck to keep his head from bumping against solid shot a sharp pain that resembled a migraine, but briefly, fortunately, and he thanked the drugs that were still in his system.

He closed his eyes, jaw flexing as the sharp turns and speed made his stomach flip, the pain in his arms and head making it worse as his barely used limbs ached with a sudden soreness.

He took a deep breath as he felt the world spin, -like the effects of one on a drunken stupor as they tried to sleep the rest off but knew they'd have to stay awake-, dizzying, relentless.

Taking another steady breath through his nose to conceal the struggle from Mozzie, Neal opened his eyes, his head lolling, facing downcast as he tried to keep the urge from resting his head against the window, struggling to remain awake.

As his blue glazed eyes stared at the black carpeting of the rather expensive vehicle, -teeth ground against each other as he swallowed the thickness in his throat that kept him from breathing properly-, he could only think of the reality of the situation.

His unsteady gaze swam upwards as he clutched his aching forearm against his chest, cradling it, looking out the window with every attempt to focus, to keep himself from passing out.

Silently, he prayed to a God he would always question in belief. He prayed, more over hoped rather then took it upon faith, that Peter would figure it out. That he would understand.

That he wouldn't see this as Neal running away like a criminal from a crime scene.

He could only hope, as the car drove off to a place he wasn't sure of yet, that Peter would look passed this little stunt, and remember who Neal was entirely.

Neal could almost laugh at the idea. Who Neal was entirely? He wasn't even a half. He was hardly real in the sense of truly being someone whole.

He closed his eyes.

Praying that Peter at least consider their former friendship before it shattered and withered to nothing, not even ash.

Silently, he apologized within his drowning thoughts as his vision swayed. He apologized to Elizabeth, for getting her involved, because he was too drawn into keeping the treasure from Keller, not only for himself, Mozzie and Alex, but to keep Peter there, as a friend.

But Peter would never see it that way would he?

He opened his eyes, blinking heavily as he fought to stay awake, eyes darting from side to side as the city lights passed him in blurs, silently praying, silently asking, silently pleading, that Peter forgive him, that Peter understand.

Silently hoping that they could someday be partners again.

Silently praying that they could be friends again, to any God that did or didn't exist...

* * *

><p><strong>AN-** Title for this story comes from episode Free Fall, when Neal purchases a Bakery and names it 'The Greatest Cake', which, if you look it over and say it lightly, or repetitively, you get the secret meaning behind the odd name for the restaurant name- "The Greatest Cake[s in town]"= "The Greatest cake"= "The great escape"  
>So this title falls along with the play off Neal implied- The Greatest Cake = The Great Escape. And it was. Just... Don't let Neal jump out of more windows script writers. It clenches the heart.<br>While beta'ing this to fix any typo's, I realized a question that might come up-  
>Why would Neal dramatically escape on the day he was to be discharged?<br>He was to be led out by someone from the bureau or a Marshall- usual routine for a felon who doesn't have a guardian to sign them out.  
>Neal's also to be looked after in case of any attempts of escape.<br>It's safe to say Peter enforced the watch because he knows that Neal's aware of the turn out once he leaves the ICU.  
>So there's the answer, Neal wasn't going to be free after the discharge, not truly, so he had to escape in order to do what he has to do.<p>

Please R&R! If there are any typos or confusement, I apologize, I looked it over at 4:28am, and it's been a very very long two days.


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